Gia: Woman Empowered (Tied In Steel Book 3) Read online

  For a guy who hated being captain of anything, running for mayor is the last thing I want to do, but my community needs me, and what better way to get vengeance and stay out of jail. Plus, my sister begged me. So here I am, wishing I was out on a boat, casting a line, drinking a beer, and smoking a cigar.

  When I hear the unmistakable sound of clicking heels, I exhale the mild anxiety I have been feeling and wait for her.

  “You ready?” Paige nudges my shoulder with hers.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Oh, come on, Pace; they’ve all been waiting for you for over an hour.”

  “I love you, Pea, but it should be you, not me.”

  “Told you I’d be there with you every step of the way, and I will.” She grabs my hand. “Now let’s go celebrate at Joe’s with the people who will look upon you as their hero again while you dethrone that fucker.”

  I can’t help laughing and look down at her belly. “That baby is going to come out swearing like a sailor, Pea.”

  She smiles as she rubs her barely-there bump then puts her arm through mine as we walk up the dock. “Our baby. All of ours.” She looks up at me. “I know it’s early, but Vincent and I have already discussed who we think the best godfather for our child would be.”

  “Yeah? Who’s that? Dominic? Abe? Sabato? Jesus, not Jase Steel. Not sure he likes me too much.”

  Laughing, she punches me in the arm. “You jackass.”

  I laugh.

  “It’s you, Pace. Always was and always will be.”

  “I’d be honored, Pea. Truly.”

  Queen's House

  Gia

  Eight Months Later …

  Livorno, Italy

  Queen’s House

  From the balcony, overlooking the main level of Queen’s House, I take in my elegant, plush surroundings, lit by the celestial crystal chandeliers casting down from the high ceilings, like evening stars.

  At one end of the room, near the entrance, an elegant and masterfully crafted mahogany bar stands with black leather seating for the members. Crushed velvet and burgundy couches line the walls on each side of the bar area, and a matching, large, round banquette settee works as a separation between the bar and dining area.

  The mahogany tables of varying sizes are covered with Pinterest-perfect place settings and centered with beautiful fresh flowers in a row of six to one singular vase, dependent on the size of the party at each table.

  Roses, always roses, in the deepest shade of red.

  My line of vision leaves the couples and groups of men and women dining to a section that, to the casual eye, is viewed as part of the ambiance that only Queen’s House brings.

  At the far end of the room is a small stage topped with three thrones. The sensual and alluring women covered in elegant clothing that sit on the thrones are made to be seen as entertainment. To those with richer, more knowing and cultured tastes, it’s clear what they represent.

  The throne sitting center, the tallest and most ornamental seat, is the one in which I have spent every Friday and Saturday evening, eight weeks out of the year, being hand-fed by the male waitstaff, for the past four years.

  Tonight is the first time in all my time here that it’s been empty. Upon the seat, a single rose lies.

  I feel eyes on me and look through the crowd, seeking the truth in that feeling, and find it immediately.

  Dark hair peppered with distinguished gray around his temples, the most handsome of all the men, stands amongst the members talking to him. He’s looking up at me, paying no attention, yet he still owns his surroundings. His facial structure appears chiseled by a master sculptor. His mere presence commands respect. His very impressive, six-foot-tall build gives the impression that he spends a good portion of each day at a gym, even when he’s fully dressed in a tailored, Italian suit. The kind of suit that even speaking the name of the designer makes one feel like they should pay a luxury tax.

  A shiver runs up my spine as his near-black eyes glance at the single rose then back at me.

  It’s time.

  In any number of novels I have read, which happens to be my preferred method of passing time on transatlantic flights, he would be the hero that saved the damsel, before laying her on a bed of roses and giving her mind-blowing orgasm after orgasm, withholding his own until his lover was completely sated. He would come calling her name, professing his love to her. And then they would live—you guessed it—happily ever after.

  I watch as he pats the shoulder of the man who is still talking to him, gives him a nod, and then walks away.

  No words, no explanation.

  My eyes are upon him the entire time as he walks through the crowd, takes two glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter, and heads to the mouth of the stairs leading up to the balcony. He smiles softly, kindly at me as he walks toward me.

  At my side, he hands me a glass of champagne and looks down over the scene below. “You’re ready for this?”

  I nod. “It’s just odd seeing it empty.”

  “It won’t be for long.” Holding up his champagne flute, he smiles slightly, eyes intense as he looks into mine. “To you, my still sweet yet strong queen.” After clinking glasses and taking a sip, he smiles down at me. “Have you decided how you’d like to spend your last night as reigning queen?”

  I nod and answer with unabashed certainty, “With you.”

  He nods once, looking concerned as he looks between my eyes, as he reaches out his hand and takes mine. “Then let’s begin.” Waving his key card in front of the sensor, unlocking one of the many doors the patrons know not to use, he squeezes my hand. “Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  Following him down the first flight of stairs leading to the main level, through another doorway, and down another flight of stairs, I do it without worry or concern. As he opens the door to the west wing, he looks back at me and our eyes connect. In his, I see he needs reassurance that I am without doubt.

  I am.

  Placing his hand on the small of my back, we begin to walk the corridor lined with doors to private rooms.

  As each door opens, one after another, the queens appear with a single rose.

  Emotions swell in my chest as each hugs me, wishes me well, and hands me a rose as we make our way to his private room. Then a tear falls when the last opens and Lace stands in the doorway, looking so much stronger than she was when she came here a year ago.

  I hug her and whisper, “I will never forget you.”

  “I love you, Gia,” she whispers in return. “Thank you for guiding me.”

  Thor looks back over his shoulder at me, his eyes searching mine, always looking to see if a nonverbal safe word is present, —it’s not— he opens the door to his private room.

  Glancing around the room, I’m surprised at the lack of furnishings. A desk, a Saint Andrews cross, and a long wooden table set for two are the only pieces of furniture inside.

  My eyes shift right, seeking Thor.

  He’s leaning against the closed door, his hands casually in his pockets.

  “You’re surprised.”

  I nod. “I am.”

  Pushing off the doorway, he walks to the table and pulls out a chair. “Have dinner with me.”

  “I’d be honored.” I sit as he pushes in my seat.

  He then walks to the door and opens it, allowing in waitstaff holding silver covered trays into the spacious and sparsely furnished private room.

  After each place their tray on the table, I thank them, and then they exit, one by one.

  It’s all very ceremonial, just as it is in the dining hall above us.

  Thor sits in the chair across from me and smiles fondly as he asks, “Shall we eat?”

  Over fresh bread, salad, red wine, and fresh pasta, we do just that.

  “How does it feel to know you’re free, Gia?”

  After taking a sip of my wine, I smile softly. “That all depends on your definition of freedom.”

  He
smiles genuinely without his usual guardedness. “This is very true. Freedom is never an absolute, is it?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s not.”

  “It’s truly a state of mind.”

  He is one hundred percent correct.

  From as far back as my memory reaches, I’ve never been free. A ward of the state at age two, moving from placement to placement until I “lucked out” at fourteen and was placed into the home of two people who decided too late in life that they wanted kids. Foster parents who, in hindsight, probably truly never desired a family but felt it was a necessary accessory.

  The evidence was in the lack of affection, the fact that they dressed to the nines and never took me shopping, yet the perfect clothes appeared in my closet, even my senior Prom gown. Extravagant vacations where it was just the two of them, and I was shuttled off by my caseworker to a respite family. I spent summers at a camp, where the underprivileged were mentored by the upper echelon of society’s youth, who hated the camp and some were cruel to the campers but forced to participate as junior counselors to pad their college resumes with volunteer work. I was one of them at the camp where I met William.

  Don’t get me wrong; I was given freedom, but it was a lie.

  When I became pregnant, I decided to terminate the pregnancy. We were young; both of us had already been accepted into colleges close to one another. I didn’t want my child to come into a world unsettled. But then William’s mother and my foster parents insisted we be married, so

  I agreed to stay home for the first year of my son, Wyatt’s life, while William, my husband, attended college at Georgetown, coming home during breaks, knowing soon we’d be with him and I’d be starting college, as well.

  Looking back, even though I thought I was free, I wasn’t. But every time I looked into my child’s eyes, I felt a type of freedom that I’d never experienced, the kind that comes from love.

  The first time William came home, day two of his break, I woke when I heard the shower. He told me he was going out. He said he needed a break from us. I was hurt, and then angry.

  He was angrier.

  Strike one.

  I blink and look up when Thor sets his fork down. “You’re deep in thought.”

  “Just thinking about freedom.”

  He leans back, and I realize he’s finished his meal, while I’ve yet to make a dent in my salad.

  “You need to think about the ways in which you truly are free.”

  Years ago, in New York, William had once again drank too much, and I once again was the cause of his rage. He’d then left me, bruised and bloodied, to meet his college friends.

  Pregnant and afraid for my unborn child’s life, I packed my belongings and took the elevator to escape, to find a way back home, to get Wyatt … to run.

  But how?

  That’s the first time I met Thor.

  Two hours later, in the comfort of a beautiful stranger’s, a hero’s company, I escaped with a gifted plane ticket and a business card. I wept cathartic tears for the first two hours of my flight from New York to Georgia, and then I made a list. A step-by-step plan on how I was going to get my son and keep us both safe.

  “Financially, thanks to you.”

  “From the very beginning, when you started at the vineyards, you’ve earned the bit of financial freedom you felt you needed.”

  Working at the vineyard, in a country that I never dared dream to someday visit, was an unrealized dream come true.

  Just like William had once been.

  It didn’t feel like work at all. It felt like an escape from my situation, one that I wasn’t sure I would survive, until I realized I had survived three years of insufferable pain, physically as well as emotionally and mentally.

  He took custody of my children.

  “However, here, Gia, you empowered yourself. What you gained from Queen’s House makes you stronger. No one can ever take that away from you.”

  I feel my face heat up when I remember finding out about Queen’s House. How I was appalled by the overheard whisperings from some of the women I worked with at the vineyard in regard to how they spent their Friday and Saturday evenings. And I was disgusted by the fact that they looked forward to it. Oddly, I wasn’t afraid. After all, I was simply existing as it was. But I wanted answers.

  “I’ll never forget the day you marched through my office door, without knocking, and demanded an explanation.” His lips twitch up briefly.

  When I confronted Thor, he asked me to sign a NDA before any explanation was given. If I chose not to sign the NDA, he offered to purchase my plane ticket home and pay me my full wages for the remainder of my contracted summer employment. Or, if I wanted to, he’d take me as a guest to Queen’s House the following weekend for dinner, where I could decide for myself if it was as awful as I imagined it to be.

  Not wanting to return home to an empty apartment and the inevitable depression that would set in while I waited for my one-week, court-appointed visitation with my children before the summer ended, I signed the NDA.

  The days leading up to my dinner with Thor, I quickly learned more about the women whom I had judged, who led what I can only explain as a double life.

  All of them had a story much like mine.

  All Broken Queens.

  “In a way, Gia, you started this.”

  “Me?” I shake my head. “No.”

  “Have I ever hidden the truth from you?”

  “Not once. But there were many women here before me.”

  He sits back in his chair and unbuttons his jacket. “It’s the truth, Gia.”

  Reluctant Wanderer / Transatlantic Transformation

  Gia

  Leaving Italy to resume what I consider my “normal” life is not easy.

  I hate flying.

  It’s not just the take-off or the landing, not just the fear of falling, or even death. It’s the visual. It’s watching out the window as everything gets smaller and smaller before everything once significant becomes blurred. It’s the realization that, no matter how empowered I feel while in Italy, how much counseling I’ve attended, how much money I know waits for me at home, I will never be Gia when I’m in Savannah.

  After this trip, I never will be again.

  It’s like a battle going on inside of me, where I am constantly warring against the person that I am in the States and the person I am in Italy.

  I constantly question my sanity. But I never will admit that, not again. Not to any therapists in the U.S., anyway. It has been used against me already.

  I have almost ten days until I’m able to see my children again. Enough time to settle into what Thor promised to be a new life.

  Nadia tells me to take the good pieces of my past and my present to mold my future. She assures me it’s normal to take time to adjust, that it’s okay, but to make sure I’m not allowing myself to fall into the bowels of hell—depression—as I typically do.

  Still, the thoughts linger, gnawing at me from the inside out.

  Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve been a “reluctant rover.” All my life, I’ve had to force myself to believe the next place will be better than the last.

  With much alone time comes a considerable amount of reflection, and I have done my lion’s share of reflecting. I guess that’s one thing about my upbringing that could be considered a blessing—I’m easily transplantable.

  Never growing roots has undoubtedly made an impact on me. What I always considered a curse is probably the only reason I’m still breathing.

  As each mile passes, my confidence dwindles.

  Why me? We all ask ourselves that at one point in time. Some more often than others. Some choose to give in to the darkness; others fight for light.

  I’ve lived in each realm secretly, taking the good from each. Virtue from the dark may seem like an oxymoron, but it sometimes takes the darkness to allow you to see the light.

  A juxtaposition.

  It’s a constant struggle, but I have
to believe in its truth.

  Being a mom is my light, even though, at first, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one. Now I know it’s because it’s hard for me to accept the good when it comes.

  While working at Queen’s House, there were mandatory counseling sessions, not at all like the court-ordered counseling sessions in Savannah that I suffered through in order to see my children. They were a fucking joke.

  Nadia, one of the on-staff therapists, had a way of not making you feel judged or fear manipulation. It allowed me to open up and be honest with not just her but myself for the first time.

  I need to focus on that light. The source is my two beautiful children. Even though I’ve been forced out of their everyday lives by their father and the courts, they’re the only reason I still fight to get up every day. They’re the reason I don’t simply stay in Italy. But also one of the reasons that, eight weeks out of the year, I go.

  Nadia and Thor talked me into finding a new apartment just a little farther away from the place where my adulthood abuse began—no matter the disappearing evidence against my ex, or the thousands of dollars I’ve paid a lawyer—the place where my children still live … without me.

  There was a time when I thought going back to William was my only option. The only way to be part of my children’s lives on an everyday basis. I even felt that maybe getting hurt physically would be easier than the emotional hell that I walked through every day. That hell being missing my kids—two thirds of my heart—and not feeling deserving still.

  He had stopped drinking, has never laid a hand on our children, and he promised me: “We would never fight again.” Yes, “we,” because, in text message, he would never admit he was the abuser.

  Each thought of reconciliation, no matter how fleeting, was dismissed every time I came face-to-face with the man who looked at me with contempt. He would never lay a hand on our children, but I worry, as they grow older, the more they look like me, will he look at them that way, as well?